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I got this in the mail right before I went out of town ( I'm out of town, which is why I've not been here. Yeah that made sense. I'll be home Monday) but I really, really wanted to show you. Even though you already probably saw over at Fuzzy Logic.
Lee Ann has some kind of weird knitted rabbit genius mojo.
I like the whole lipstick and combat boot thing way more than I ought.
Thank you my very dear.
So you remember I told you about my little handspun swatch?
I was staring at it - and it's nice. Sort of. But the thing that always bothered me about the yarn was equally evident in the swatch. Over-plied. Y'all, I am wrapped too tight. Or I wrap too tight. Something like that.
Because the big wheel keeps on turning... a lot faster than I can keep up with. I'm a-getting better, but not as better as I might like.
Refresh your memory:
Can you see how tight the ply is? This is part of my long draw training and though it is more supported than strictly long-draw, I am getting better at drawing my hand back and letting the fiber draft out easy. This first skein of fiber was very tight - springy and soft and improving, but tight.
So I'm staring at it one day - what, you don't stare at your yarn? - when it occurred to me that ply is not destiny. Or maybe it is destiny, but it ISN'T written in stone. It is written in wool...which as we all know, is a malleable substance within certain parameters.
I plied counter clockwise. So if I want, I can spin back. It was a lightbulb moment, no less profound for the lack of original thought involved. Hey, you learn it the hard way, you KNOW it.
I started with a random dowel before realizing I was stupid to keep twisting and twisting manually...and stitched to a drop spindle. Could have used the wheel, but something about the leisurely unspinning, and the eye-ball-it-as-I-went amble was appealing at that moment. And moving slow let me really spend some time getting a sense of how I wanted the ply to feel and look.
Can you tell?
I think you can.
Pretty cool, huh?
Now I'm trying to make some more yarn that is - well, I'm not good enough for it to be the same - usably similar.
That's the old swatch, the unplied yarn...and the first spool of new singles.
The first two skeins are actually plied - but not dry yet....we'll see.
Someone told me once that the best way to master - or to begin to master - spinning was to pick a sweater's worth of wool and just jump on it. While I believe that learning on good fiber is a good idea, I couldn't bear to use a beloved fleece for my freshman efforts. So I've been talking a lot of shit about doing this without actually, you know, doing it.
With this taupe wool I finally have the perfect storm - I love the fiber, and the color; it is dreamy soft, yet a bit imperfect in quality and a tiny bit challenging to spin. It is not a great fleece, not a Gladys nor a Maureen, so while I love it it, I don't LOVE it. Yet it doesn't bore me. And the inconsistencies in the fiber are forgiving of my inconsistencies as a spinner.
Having fun. Learning. Two of my favorite things.
Trust me, it looks better in person.
Well, I have half a new roof. Maybe three quarters at this point.
It's going well.
(Dudes are throwing shit off the roof now. I do not grudge them the amusement.)
(Crash. Then laughter.)
I tried to stop the plaster in the ceiling from cracking with the force of my personality, but it didn't work. No real harm done, just an old house protesting the modern machinary at work on her head. Add another thing to the list of surfaces that need a dab of plaster and a coat of paint.
I am oddly facinated by the old roofing material.
Yesterday I spun. Today I spin.
For the last several months - what with all the dampness and rain and wind and never ceasing moisture, it's gotten a little sieve-like Chez Juno. There's water damage here.....there......over on that wall....in that room.......nothing unrepairable, but nothing one can over look either.
There's a life lesson - as a homeowner what can you never ignore? A: Water. Unless you have a fondness for things falling down. Existentially this might be fabulous, but I assure you, you will not enjoy it as a resident of the structure.
Anyway, there's a crew of guys bashing away on the roof - they are going to take it down to timber and give me a new one, new and improved and waterproof even. I love them. At least for now.
So, I'm doing no earthy good being here, right? And yet, I can't bring myself to go to the office. They're ripping the scalp off my beloved house. I need to be here to hold her hand.
We're very close.
Harmful chemicals found in many sex toys
AMSTERDAM, Netherlands, Sept. 8 (UPI) -- A report released Friday by Greenpeace Netherlands reveals that many plastic sex toys have high concentrations of phthalates, a toxic chemical softener.
Greenpeace reported that a wide range of sex toys, including vibrators and dildos, contain hazardous levels of phthalates, which is used to make plastic more soft and flexible.
Researchers reportedly tested eight sex toys for phthalates, finding that seven of them contained dangerous amounts of the chemicals -- which are said not to biodegrade well and can be hazardous even in small amounts.
Three years ago, research into children's toys such as teething rings turned up similar levels of the chemicals. Toy manufacturers were forced to come up with alternatives, since phthalates can be ingested through direct contact with sensitive tissue.
Greenpeace said the research indicates exposure to the chemicals can disrupt the body's ability to regulate hormone production. The chemicals also reportedly can damage reproduction, and cause liver and kidney defects -- and possibly cancer.
via Feministing
Yes, now it appears that sex toys can make you sick and infertile. That's right - have an independent sexual identity and you. will. be. punished. I swear, someone rigged this. (Also, we clearly have no freaking idea what plastics really do to us over the long run. She says, drinking from a diet cola bottle.) How can one check on the safety of anything one happens to own? Just toss anything that isn't made of silicone?
And speaking of Feministing...
A couple of people commented or emailed about Friday's post saying that they thought it was great that the Nike ads showed a woman confounding the other people's expectations and that maybe I was missing the point. And I thought fair enough, it's a perspective, maybe I am missing the forest here. I have been known to get all het up.......
And then I read about one of the women at Feministing's adventures in sexism. She was invited to be part of a group of bloggers meeting with former President Clinton, and has been attacked in a variety of ways for being inappropriate apparently just because she stood near the man and wasn't wearing a burka. It's interesting reading.
And that's why the Nike ads upset me - they frame the question in terms of 'being pretty and still capable' rather than bypassing prettiness as relevant. Fuckability first!
Nike didn't pick Sharapova because she is the best player, the most aggressive...they picked her because she is the most conventionally attractive of the top players. Just imagine the same ad running with Roger Federer instead....it's ridiculous. Because culturally, men are not seen as "handsome and...." anything . Their accomplishments make them sexy, rather than their sexiness making their accomplishments (sort of) palatable.
Um, I'm not sure this is a knitting blog anymore. Or only, anyway. I don't knit fast enough to keep fresh fiber going all the time...and more and more, it isn't knitting that moves me to words.
I just felt I ought to mention it.
You know what makes me mad?
I know, I know - what doesn't?
The fact that when I went to replace my weight lifting gloves the only women's gloves they had were light duty. Little flimsy things cut away at the back of the hand and palm to I don't know - look sexy? But also to not stay on the hand when you're using them and to wear out in five seconds because I think they're meant for reps with little hand weights painted pink or silver and topping out at 5 pounds.
So I bought men's gloves and I hate them. Because my hands are biggish, but still female. So they were snug when I tried them on, but now I've worn them and the fingers are a little too big, the palm slides around when I grip because they are cut for a different hand shape. Makes my palms hurt. You can get decent gloves for women - my last ones were good. I had to - and I know this will astonish you - order them online. But they fit. Now they have holes in them. And my sneakers are flapping at the sole.
Those are easier to replace. Because we like to pretend we revere strong, physical women and women's sports have gained ground, you can get a decent athletic shoe cut for a woman's foot - because yes, that's different too.
I followed a link recently to the Nike "I feel pretty" ads. They are terrific ads.....if you are a guy or an ad director. Whoever thought them up, approved them, made them has to be feeling pretty good right about the clever, attractive, amusing, catchiness of showing a women feeling pretty when she puts that serve right in your eye. Or when she runs further, bikes longer...cause really, who wouldn't? Because I....wait.
Pretty?
At the gym I feel like I belong in my body the way I often don't in the rest of my life. I feel strong. I feel healthy. And that's why exercise and sports are a great thing for human beings of all genders and why women's sports are important. But pretty? My hair is pulled back tight, I'm sweaty, I contort my face, my body. I squat and curl, I make myself physical, I make myself more than just a pretty thing and I feel great. Sore and bitchy sometimes too, but great.
(The magnificently irritated Twisty was recently struck by the insanity of Nike's "sports corset" - yes, you read that right - and had some pointed things to say about the notion of the "empowerful" woman. I had begun this post when I saw hers and abandoned it in despair, outclassed. But the irritation persisted, a nagging zit of marginalization brought to a head last night when a man I met recently told me that he wasn't "into a woman trying to show me "who is the boss of the house"..... Maybe that means she gets better results not showing off her strength but weakness? The man has steering control but the woman keeps the ship on her palm."
Ghod on Popsicle stick, the shit one has to put up with in order to get laid.)
The thing those ads have in common besides their message and some clever copy writing is that the athletes are all thin, muscular women, at or below their socially ideal weight. Wouldn't I love to see that runner with a bit of an ass, a bust, some curves that were strong and muscular and imperfect too. Or any of these women looking the way people I know do when they exercise - bulging, straining, teeth-grittingly physical. Also goofy, extended, awkward, drenched, reaching, sprawling, moving, using themselves.
Because the empowering (sorry) thing about exercise is feeling at home in your own body, and yes, improving it inside and out. Not just outwardly, for the gaze of someone else somewhere who, heaven forbid!, should be offended by flesh actually moving....or by a women so absorbed by her own commitment to an activity that she forgets to be attractive for a minute there, but inwardly, for better health, calmer mind, an active life.
I guess I wouldn't mind so much the idealized bodies - it is advertising, after all - if when I clicked on through to the Nike site (I admit it, I was dazzled for a minute).....I could find something to buy other than sneakers.
Seriously. Two pair of gloves that look too light duty for real free weights. Not one sports bra that I can find on the site will accommodate my needs. Not one. As far as I can tell from the website, they don't make a single item of women's sports apparel for a bust size larger than 41-3". I could be wrong - it is one of the worst sites I've seen for finding information as opposed to pretty pictures (it's been updated since I wrote this, and it slightly better. So I take back some of it: there was one top I found that might fit.)
And while they have specific categories for golf, and fitness dance, and running and yoga and sports culture - which means posing, I think - they don't have a category of weightlifting equipment for women. Not pretty enough, I expect. If we are celebrating the beauty and power and real sexiness of women, shouldn't that message include ways for everyone to get dressed for the gym? (edited to add - And sexiness has WHAT to do with my ability to hit a golf ball, or swing a racquet, or run, or lift or bend? I concede the point for sports culture though. Posing is all about the external eye.)
They are far from the only company I've seen that clearly thinks their brand will be debased if it is widely available to the less aerodynamically sleek. But I'm suffering a particular revulsion of feeling because they make such a point of their promotion of women and fitness, of the beauty in strength, of the fierceness in women as competitors. It's a lie - clearly you should only Just Do It if you can be aesthetically pleasing while you're Doing It. And if you have a little extra flesh on top of those muscles you've worked so hard for, you can rot. Out of sight, please.
Unless you're a guy. I notice the guys size chart goes up to a 3X. That's nice. I see that under their FAQ's - that would be FREQUENTLY asked questions - they say "at this time Nike does not produce plus sizes for women. However, this is an area that is being researched by our apparel department." I bet.
Needless to say, my new sneakers are not Nikes.
They are pink though.
I don't know what came over me. A feeling of being empowerful, probably. Got to watch that.
I really do not think there could be more beautiful words in the language.
I was too busy gossiping and giggling to knit seriously last night - that's the secret power of knitting groups isn't it, the human connection? - and once K. pegged her sweater in progress at my head (why yes, I AM that obnoxious, thank you) all real work was lost to the general goofiness.
A 2 inch square was all I managed in three hours, so I guess it is good I found it soul satisfying. It's nice when these things work out.
But I never told you about the wool that arrived a few weeks ago! What was I thinking?
"Arrived?" They said questioningly. "We thought you weren't buying wool right now." Correct my chicks: Bought long ago, and filling the corners of my kitchen until the faint pervasive waft of sheep - particularly on damp days (not that there is anything wrong with that) - persuaded me to cave heed the advice of the excellent Claudia and send it out for processing.
Enter Wooly Knob.
(But not completely, I cry. For the washing of wool by hand still moves me, but not to the tune of 8 sheep)
Yes, I said 8. Well, 7. One came already in roving form.
Meet the flock.
Coopworth (lamb?) from French Hill, obtained at Cummington. Extraordinarily soft.
Lovely Maureen, ecru Merino from Utopia Ranch. This was 3+ pounds, not a full fleece and while I knew it was nice when it was dirty, you would DIE if you touched it now. The roving is immaculate and this lovely, lovely cloudy off white.
A sheep's worth of nameless Romney hogget roving - this is a dark brown black, but photo choices were "invisible" or "flash washed". It's verra nice. Curlypurl's housecleaning is my great good luck. I'm hoping to use it to master my woes with the fast spinning (the only kind I can do with the purple wheel) of slippery wool.
Wetherby - a white Romeldale from Longridge Farm. I was going to buy half of this from Mamacate, but she made me take the whole thing. Made me, I tell you. It was a little yellowed, but I asked them to just blend it carefully and I got what I hoped for - this bag of shining butter colored wool.
Isn't it funny that the words that come to mind are all delicious food words?
Texas rambouillet, a lovely rich cafe au lait - or taupe, bland word, if you have no romance in your soul. The tiniest bit of almost nupping in the roving - the fleece length was a little uneven. Of the four that just came back, this was the only roving that had so much as a bump in it and a small amount of remaining VM. I know what I sent them - they did good.
The most charming thing? I sent this long letter with descriptions of the wool and what I wanted from it - I got a little carried away, as one naturally does, and apologized for going on and on, explaining that it was for my records as well as for them. Inside the box that came back to me was a little handwritten note from the woman doing the processing thanking me for the information. She said the more she knows the easier it is to do a good job. So there you go - PERMISSION to go on and on and on....at least when writing to the wool processor.
The rest of the kitchen population included Sweet Pea, the CVM lamb who needed to move to Lanea's house (she didn't have any dirty wool. How could I let her go on that way?), the pound of merino/cotswold cross I washed on my way out of town, the long neglected fawn Shetland, Demi and a gorgeous gunmetal Romney/merino cross from Mary Pratt - ever so slightly tippy and in need of hand processing.
Sorry - NINE. But as I said, one just moved out - oh, you should have seen her tiny soft baby locks. Sigh. And now they are back and carded and ready to go - well, all but the last two. Those I want to do on my own. (I'm not CURED of hand processing, I just have a better sense of PROPORTION. Come on.)
Ought to keep me out of trouble for a while.
(I'm sad about the pictures though. I haven't been able to find good light for wool porn since, like, June. A little better if you click for big.)
First steps - did I show this already? Too lazy to check. But hey, it's handspun. It won't kill you to look again. Rambouillet.
And that swatch I mentioned words and words and words ago?
Nothin' better. Except maybe being home.
I never write. I know, I know. You all should so totally break up with me. I'm a bad girlfriend.
I got home late last night from 9 days with my mom. She had her hip replaced at the end of August and I went out to spring her from re-hab. I had a whole thing written about mothers and daughters and all, but you know - insert family drama here and let us move on. I'm glad I went, it was the right thing to do, it had its moments good and bad.....and by Thursday I was parched for home.
I missed my life. I missed blogs and knitting and spinning, oh I missed spinning, and talking on the phone and exercise and going to the grocery store only once a week instead of every five minutes and work and friends and being alone for more than 10 minutes. Although I think you would have enjoyed the part where my mother's little electric cart died in the middle of WalMart and when I went to get help I realized that in order to pick up the lady with the new hip I was going to have to drive a new cart to her.
The whole way - because of course mom was broken down in the very back of the scary huge giant super store - I felt like I ought to be apologizing to everyone one for taking the disabled person's aid. I restrained myself, because apologies are bullshit. But inside I was going - excuse me, terribly sorry, just delivering it, not for me, it was an accident, so sorry, pardon me. But only when I wasn't muttering - I feel like a jackass, I feel like a jackass, I feel like a jackass. I've never been a huge WalMart fan - something about the lighting leaves me feeling disoriented and I totally know they do it on purpose so you wil forget what you came for and wander randomly putting things in your cart - but now I positively hate the place for being a scene of humiliation.
Now I'm back and I've slept in my own bed and had cat rodeo on my head all night as Moxie ran around and came back to jump up and down on me and said "you're home? really home?" and then ran around again in excess of emotion and then came back to sit on my chest and meow and said "you're home? really home?" again...and tonight I go to the gym and then to knitting and now I'm at my desk and my job never looked better. Perhaps I ought to go do it now, though.
It is very, very good to be back.
